Wake me up when summer comes
by Vici3
Summary: If life goes to pieces, and success in business goes to hell, every little difficulty begins to seem like a real punishment. But is it true when all your problems are just school and work, and another person loses money, fame, career and... and recognition in one day..?


**Instead of a prologue**

I laughted. Most neruous and hysterical laught in my life.

A new line flew out from under my hand tapping with my fingers on the buttons of the keyboard, and then silently froze on the monitor screen. Journalist are gaining the same articled day by day, collecting them from what they dug up in the Internet and weving into one big lump. An unshaven man in years with deep bags under his eyes, in which one can drown kittens, or a woman in her 40s, who is not particulary watching hersels, and therefore she goes to work in the baggy that first comes to her hand when she is going to outside at early twilght morning – these are workers quite often, but not always, write something worthwhile. They must have given themselves up to their work long ago. Probably they were burning in this. Probably they burned down over time. Work was a part of their lives, and eventually became a habit, from which it is now impossible (and is there a need?) remove. Whether business - all favourite "hacks" who , generally are relating to show business. It's like baking a pie. First you have to collect all available information, then - to teach in as much as possible scandalous style, to mix together all the truth and falsehood, and to top it off with your own thoughts and enjoy the effect, rubbing your hands and enjoying the influx of comments.

I'd erased everything I'd written several times in a row, crossed it out and corrected it as best I could, but instead of the article, it was still a memoir that didn't compare to what was really required of me. "Glenn will kill me, Glenn will kill me, Glenn will kill me," I wailed, not looking up from my work for an hour, alternately sipping coffee, the taste of which I was fit to hang myself. In addition, when in the morning in the mouth was not a crumb, and time for thoughts about work and still sucks all the last remaining after another sleepless night of strength, this drink, which is supposed to wake up, burns all the insides, and from each SIP I have goosebumps running through my body. Sharp run of fingers to Shift. Stop and breathe. Paragraph.

_I confess, I don't know how to write scandalous articles. I don't know how to write bad things about people with whom I have such good memories. I can't talk about them, no matter what has happened in our relationship and how it has ended. I'm just a journalist. And I have to write the truth. _How many will be hurt by such a beginning of article? How many will reach at least a little further than my lead? Seasoned showbiz journalists will snort and shrug. The young, chasing a bunch of news and never having time for anything, will gladly confine themselves to the headline. The others won't even look at this column. What a difference!

I continue to write, and now there are more and more new thoughts. I think the job of writers is the same, but in their imagination flashed not only the harmony of one paragraph with another and the style of the text, as a conscious plot picture. It has been page. It has been one page and a half one. It has been second page.

Well, what do I know about you? You are tall, but so well matched in stature that even though I'm only up to your shoulder, I can't imagine you in any other way. All your movements are always folded and exactly thought out in advance. When you're walking. When you're doing sports. When you're dancing. Does it happen by itself? You never wonder what you look like from the outside. But it's such understandable you are perfectly. And for all your confidence and determination, you are so much modesty, and sometimes simplicity, in your every action, that it has always astonished me to the utmost. And that's you. You do not like anything on display, even in front of cameras do you use this only in extreme cases. In dealing with people, even unfamiliar, you are always friendly, but to a certain extent restrained. You are always gallant, which speaks about youe excellent education and good manners. You listen to the interlocutor to the end, but at the same time you can zealously enter into an argument if in the discussed question you see a contradiction with your views.

Everyone is always talking about your blue eyes and your look that penetrates into the very soul – and part of it is true. Whoever you spoke, you will not be in vain to divert from the source view. Most sincere emotions mainly in the eyes, whether it is the sparkle of joy or a cleverly-concealed irritation. And your smile.

You smile so often and so much that some may think that you can never meet without it, but it is not so. Even in the most difficult moments of life, you hide everything behind a slightly tired smile, and then it reflects all the disappointments and anxieties you have ever experienced, all the tragic roles played, to which it could relate, all the words that you met with this smile while your heart quickened its beating in your chest.

Only that small part of what I can say about the man who is known and loved by millions, with whom I have not had time to get acquainted…

"Ahem".

Glenn likes to show up at times when my imagination is particularly excited, and there are only a few sentences left before the end of my article. I reluctantly look away from the monitor and for some reason I think that tears glisten in my eyes, but the chief does not express surprise, and I calm down on this score.

I scowl at him as much as I can. For a moment we look at each other in silence: I, wishing I could read the unfinished article again, looking from the monitor to the chief; he, leaning his hands on my desk and adjusting his glasses.

"Is the article ready?" he asks, rather dryly, but I know there is interest behind the tone. It's important for Glenn, as it is for me, to meet the deadline.

"Almost," I nod, "but I didn't have much time last night because of the transcripts, so I didn't have to do it until today, and -" I'm still mumbling, trying to hide my disgust behind these pointless excuses, when Glenn interrupts me with a sharp gesture and slaps his hand softly on the table.

"Well, I hope, warm-up has passed for you successfully, because this material can boldly to send in basket, -" my chief says it with habitual rapid tone, and I in response to this only have time harvest a mouth air, until in anybody are born all sorts of swears. And not thinking stop nor on second, a man continues to: "- So I give you on reflection ten minutes – through ten minutes he will in office, and here, itself don, have all work, time presses, and we need to information. I don't need to explain, you just know", - he grins and hands me a pen-recorder, which was taken away last week as punishment for me because I use it in conference without permission. "- Don't delay, Chris, don't act like a sleepy fly", he taps his fingers on the table and then walks away with a beaming, mocking smile. Hell, he knows I hate that shortening my name!

But my anger is smoothed before the uncertainty of what awaits me. _"Will he be in the office?"_ About whom the speech and why about the interview with the the stranger I discover for 10 minutes until it?

But I don't have time to ask Glenn. The chief's office is closed when I get there. My thoughts are confused. Three commonplace and most common questions are written in ink on a piece of paper. I go out to meet my mysterious guest, bumping into my colleagues along the way. They don't care about me or even about this rainy gray day – everyone is immersed in their endless affairs, and only from some can be awarded an elementary greeting. The bustle does not stop in any of their offices. I'm walking down the hall when Simon almost bumps into me.

"Someone's here, Christine," he says, emphasizing the first syllable like the others. "- Go, check, I do not have any time", - and he runs away. I only have time to snort after him, and so fly to meet the guest, but the next second a silhouette appears in the doorway. I pull a smile over my face and run to him. Probably, the interviewee himself understood-well, then, was the experience of giving interviews to the press. It's good for me. Worries pile up in the face of work, and I pull myself together and greet the guest. And in the same second so and freeze on place.

He says my name with a hollow voice. I says his name also quietly and uncertainly.

This is my weirdest academic year.


End file.
